


The Deep Roads

by Lykegenia



Series: Rosslyn Cousland [4]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, i hate the deep roads, so I wrote this, the sodding broodmother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-15 06:16:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18068135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lykegenia/pseuds/Lykegenia
Summary: The battle with the broodmother takes its toll on Rosslyn.





	The Deep Roads

**Author's Note:**

> So I recently replayed the Deep Roads, and let me just say. I. Hate. The. Broodmother. I have a hard time believing any female Warden is ok after that encounter. I needed to cathart.

Alistair hated the Deep Roads. He had thought so when they were lost in the winding tunnels of the crossroads, he had decided it after they had to endure the spiders and the golems and the _ghosts_ running loose in Ortan Thaig, but standing in the bower now, with the broodmother’s ichor black on his sword, with his guts roiling and his sweat cold on his brow, he knew it down to the marrow of his bones. Oghren and Shale had taken it upon themselves to sort through the small hoard of items the darkspawn had collected in the monster’s shadow for anything they could use, while Sten looked on grim-faced, and Wynne took a pause to account for their medical supplies.  

“I don’t know about the rest of you…” he started, voice wobbly, “but I really hope Caridin has some Antivan brandy stashed for – where’s Rosslyn?” His insides plummeted like a stone in a pool. The others noted his alarm but he was already questing out with his Warden senses, searching for the familiarity of her in his mind – she had been right beside him, she –

Her shield lay discarded on the floor at the entrance to one of the tunnels. He could sense no darkspawn, but somehow that made his worry deepen.

“Over here!” he shouted, and followed the trail. He found her gauntlets next, torn off with the straps still half-fastened. A sour spatter of vomit curdled next to them, splashed against the wall as if she had braced herself on her arms to empty her stomach.

“Rosslyn?” he called out tentatively. Still no darkspawn.

A high, querulous whine answered him. Following it, he rounded a corner and almost tripped over her sword – the heirloom blade that never left her side.

“Oh, Rosslyn…”

She was tucked into a corner of the tunnel untouched by Blight, her elbows on her knees and her head braced in her hands. Tear tracks ran down from blank, unblinking eyes, and her entire body shook as if trying to tear itself apart. At her side, Cuno fidgeted. He pressed his nose against her cheek and grumbled when she remained unresponsive, then wagged his tail and pawed at her arm, trying to open a space large enough to wiggle his way into her lap. When he noticed Alistair, he _chuffed_ and padded over for a cursory greeting before turning back with a significant look at his mistress. He whined again.

“Good boy,” Alistair told him with a rub across the ears. “You go keep the others busy.”

With a brief lick to his fingers, the dog did as he was told and trotted back down the tunnel towards the clank of worried, approaching feet, leaving just the two of them in the dark.

“Rosslyn?”

Her face turned at the sound of her name, but her eyes, glassy as a doll’s, remained on whatever object held her fixation. Once, in his early days of templar training, one of his fellow recruits had been struck with an ill-aimed mace and had spent hours in a similar daze, unresponsive and insensible to the world around him. His fingers tightened on Rosslyn’s sword as he deliberated shouting for Wynne, but as the silence stretched, he saw fresh tears gather in Rosslyn’s eyes, saw her mouth work without air to give voice to the words, her chest in spasms as her lungs constricted.

“It’s alright,” he murmured, sinking to her side. “Just breathe.”  

She held herself taut as he folded himself around his armour and removed his gauntlets, stubborn to the last. Still aware of where they were, he let his senses roam further for any sign of darkspawn, and as gently as he could, threaded his fingers with hers to try and coax her attention away from whatever dark precipice had taken her. He kissed her hair.

“That’s it,” he murmured as her breath lurched. “I’m here.”

Her reaction grew like an avalanche. First a sob, then she turned, seeking the edges of his armour, clinging to him as she fractured, not just grief but panic long held at bay. It left her in great, shuddering breaths. They cut off and crowded in on each other, desperate, ugly, like infection seeping from a lanced wound. At a loss, Alistair could only wrap her up as best as possible, cursing that they were in the Deep Roads, trapped in armour, and not in her room, tangled up together as they had been on the night before they set out, lost in confessions of love and shared warmth.

“Are you alright?” he asked when she finally quieted.

Rosslyn heaved a deep, steadying breath. “I am not going to die down here.”

“Of course not,” he replied uneasily. “We’re going to find Branks –”

“No.” She shook her head, pulling away so she could look at him. “I mean I am not going to die _down here_. I am going to die under the open sky, with the smell of grass and the sound of the sea. I won’t become a – one of those... _things_.”

Swallowing, he glanced away from the steel in her eyes, the horror he read there. “I won’t let that happen.”

“That’s not something you can promise.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but a lump squeezed in his throat and cut the words short. Instead, he found her hand again, massaged her fingers to stir warmth into her blood. “What about the Calling?”

“I don’t care.” Her eyes closed as he pushed a strand of gore-streaked hair behind her ear. “If you can make Grey Wardens, you can unmake them. We've saved the Circle from demons, broken a three-hundred-year-old curse – I refuse to believe there isn’t a way.”

“I’ve never heard of a Warden breaking their oath.”

She scoffed. “Do you think any have tried? Do you think they’d tell you? The Wardens are nothing but secrets, secrets and lies to get what they want.”

“Duncan -”

“Duncan bartered my freedom for my life while my father lay bleeding out on the floor,” she snapped, then shook her head again as he recoiled. She had never told him that before. “I didn’t have a choice in it – Void take it, _you_ didn’t have a choice. Not to have them in your head, not to go mad and _become_ one of them.” Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes as she cupped his jaw. “I can’t bear the thought of that for either of us. Duty is one thing, but that...”

He couldn’t help it – he kissed her. She turned her face upward with a moan, lips stained with salt, hands curling into his hair to drag him closer, returning his eagerness with her own. They stopped thinking about the darkspawn, about where they were, about everything except the need for each other after weeks of fighting without seeing the sun. Alistair groaned as Rosslyn pulled herself into his lap, winced as the points of her armour dug into his thigh, settled his hands at her waist to help her straddle him properly, and all the while her hands cradled his face as if she were scared he might suddenly vanish.

“You win,” he murmured as they paused for breath. “If we survive this, we’ll do the impossible.”

She smiled and pressed her mouth to his again. “I love you. And I wish we were anywhere else but here.”

“Like back in Bhelen’s palace?” he asked.

“ _Maaaaybe_.”

He grinned. “In your room? With that very comfortable bed?”

A finger trailed along the scruff that had grown on his chin, her smile still brushed against his. “Not before you’ve had a bath, I think.”

“You could join me.”

She giggled.

“Think about it, we could help each other get to all those _hard to reach_ places.”

“Oh, I’m thinking about it.”

They stayed pressed together in the silent dark until they could stand to move, and the need to save the world reasserted itself over the calm they had wrapped around themselves with gentle touches and soft words. Rosslyn moved first, unfolding herself to stand up with a creak of leather and a sigh. She held her hand out and pulled Alistair to his feet, then bent to pick up her sword from where he had rested it against the wall. The others waited in the tunnel beyond, their voices echoing with impatience and the growls of the dog holding them at bay. They didn’t speak as they turned towards the party, only leaned into one another, arms linked. They fitted their gauntlets and sheathed their weapons, and when they emerged back into the cavern proper, Rosslyn’s back was straight, her usual determined look in place, and Alistair stood at her side with his hand certain on the small of her back.


End file.
